Forty-three
Sarah
Istared at my phone, weaving in and out of the aisles at a health food store because I’d officially started shopping for Instacart.
After talking to Tonya, I did meet with an attorney.
And now it felt like my life was ending.
I utterly refused to be in my house unless I was sleeping, or embarrassingly, a little tipsy, as a few nights I’d resorted to a drink or two before heading home to go to bed.
That alone should’ve been a red flag—I hated alcohol.
But the pain and stress and anxiety racing through my system made me a bit more understanding toward the people who utilized it.
Most evenings after work, I left my car idling in the garage so I could dash in, fill my water bottle, yank off my scrubs, and put on a hoodie and jeans. I would jam a hat over my head or flip the hoodie up and cinch the strings in order to hide my terrible new hair cut.
Then, I’d open my app and accept a grocery order and jump back in the car.
I took the jobs with low tips because it wasn’t about the money.
Not at all.
Even still, by nine o’clock my neck ached and my feet hurt and I was so hungry I was contemplating popping open a customer’s bag of Halloween candy nestled in the backseat of my car. I promised I’d go home and take care of my poor body after I delivered this last order.
As I followed the GPS through a neighborhood, I realized I was close-ish to Jackie’s house and wondered what she was up to. Maybe we could hang out…or I could spend the night or something…
I didn’t think I was desperate enough to ask for that, but here I was, crafting the perfect text in my head.
I’d say: Hey Jackie, remember when I said I was fine and you should stop checking on me?
I was lying. I’ve been indulging in after-work drinks trying to forget about your brother because I’m terrified I’m going to become my mom or worse that I already AM my mom and I feel so guilty about all the choices I made that I want to scream and throw up and hit something all at once so please let me come cuddle on your couch and have the boys ready please and thank you.
When I stopped in the customer’s driveway, I did send a text, but all I said was:
Me
Hey, can I come hang out?
By the time I lugged the groceries to the front door and got back into my car, there was a text from her.
Jackie
I’m actually on a date.
Me
Again?
Jackie
I get a lot of right-swipes.
Me
Ok no problem
Jackie
You okay? Why don’t you want to be at home?
I tossed the phone into the passenger’s seat. I really didn’t want to get into that with anyone. No thank you.
But the question alone sent a zillion answers storming into my heart.
My sheets smell like him.
His side is cold.
His office door is closed.
I have no one to talk to.
His music isn’t playing.
And I feel so guilty that I can’t live with myself.
I fought my tears like they were coming to steal my homeland, but they persisted, slowly tightening my throat and blurring my vision and shaking my lips. I drove home half-way breathing, hardly moving, clenching my jaw against the way the dam around my emotions shook.
Inside, I took the fastest shower of my life and gulped down some food in the kitchen then jumped in bed, determined to be unconscious as quickly as possible. But then, Jackie texted me again which caused me to pick up my phone—a grave misstep when you’re soon-to-be-divorced.
After our text exchange about how her date went, my rebellious thumb pulled up Instagram, and there, sitting front and center on my screen was Peter.
On a horse.
In the training ring.
Laughing.
I blinked—surely, I was seeing wrong. Hallucinating, maybe? I rubbed my eyes and watched again, unable to peel my retinas away from that beautiful smile. The smile I missed so much.
Meadowbrook had posted this reel a few hours ago.
It was just a highlight reel of the training they’d done that week, and a clip of Peter on a horse made it in.
The clip couldn’t have been longer than two seconds, but it was enough for me to see that real smile.
Not the one he gave people when he was pretending.
“Play again?”
I tapped it. And I played it over and over and over, holding my thumb on the screen to see his smile, his face, his hair. His skin was tan and his eyes gleamed with life. He held the reins loosely in one hand, as if he was completely comfortable up there—like he was suddenly a cowboy.
The fortress around my heart groaned, threatening to buckle.
My breath came out like a wheeze, scraping over my vocal chords.
He looked so…good.
With a violent crack, a painful sob wrenched from my throat and I dropped the phone on my chest. My body heaved as every locked-up feeling tore through my heart and exited my mouth.
Why? That’s all I wanted to know.
Why, when I had advocated for him, did it take him being away from me to be happy? I knew Peter—that look in his eyes wasn’t a show. Why could I not help him find peace? Despite the relief unfurling in my chest, darkness rushed into my heart.
Everything he had said about needing space started to make sense.
Maybe I was the problem, smothering him somehow.
Because now he looked so free.
I wracked my brain trying to remember what I’d done to push him away like this. Every time I’d opened my mouth in the last two years, I was trying to advocate for him. Trying to push him toward good things that his soul and body needed.
My mom and dad suddenly took over my brain.
And a realization clapped against my heart.
I was doing for Peter what I wished my mom would’ve done for my dad.
And that was a good thing, right? I wasn’t going to be the kind of woman who let my man sit around and waste away. I wouldn’t let him rot into the easy chair, drinking beer and watching football.
But a question poked at my heart. Was Peter like my dad?
The obvious answer to that question was no, but I couldn’t deny the way the comparison surged anxiety through my veins. The mere idea terrified me.
But I rationalized it. And rationalized the way I managed it.
If Peter didn’t turn into my dad, I couldn’t turn into my mom. Plain and simple.
And maybe that was why I pushed him so hard.
If I gave up my hopes and dreams for the future, I’d be just like her, eating cheese quesadillas on Mother’s Day and watching sports I don’t like just to find purpose by his side.
But had all my cheerleading and urging us onward hurt him somehow?
I blinked up at the ceiling, willing the truth to flood me.
Then a memory surfaced in my heart—Peter’s head peeking out from under the comforter on our bed as I flipped through a book of baby names and talked to him about the ones I liked for our future children.
Heat crept into my face as I recalled what Peter said, “You’re handing me a burden I’m not strong enough to carry right now, Sarah. ”
And he was right. He wasn’t strong enough to carry it.
And I wasn’t strong enough to let it go.
Tears of shame stung my eyes as I looked back on the memory with fresh eyes.
I could still see his pale face and the dark circles under his eyes and the way he clung to the sheets.
When he was at his lowest point, I could only think about the death of my own dreams. I hardly even gave a thought to his.
No wonder he stopped talking to me.
No wonder he looked happier now.
Seeing an attorney was the right decision. We were better apart.
I didn’t know exactly what point our relationship headed south, or where we veered off the path, but I knew I’d spend my entire life regretting that we did. Regretting that the man I loved so much was thriving without me. Regretting that our love would ruin the rest of my life.